The Weight of a Breath

The smell of dry earth after a long drought is a sharp, metallic sweetness that clings to the back of the throat. It is the scent of waiting. When I was a child, I would press my palms against the rough, prickly stems of wild weeds, feeling the tiny, stinging needles bite into my skin. It was a reminder that softness often demands a toll. We move through the world looking for gentleness, yet we are constantly brushed by the jagged edges of things that refuse to be held. There is a quiet, rhythmic pulse in the way a living thing settles onto a surface, a sudden stillness that demands we stop our own frantic motion to witness it. We are all just temporary guests on the stalks of our own lives, balancing between the sting of the earth and the pull of the sky. Does the weight of a wing change the way a flower leans toward the sun?

Bawar Mohammad has captured this delicate balance in the image titled Painted Lady on Thistle. The way the creature rests upon the thorns reminds me that beauty is often found in the most precarious of places. Does this stillness make you want to hold your breath, too?